


Heart of a Hunter/Soul of a Beast

by ArgentGale



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Orson gets on Wil's last nerve, Two Assholes in the Woods, blow job in the woods, maybe some bad choices were made, waste of very fine wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 22:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentGale/pseuds/ArgentGale
Summary: As one of the most respected and sought after big game hunting guides on Eriadu, Wilhuff Tarkin prided himself on his ability to adapt to most any situation. To think on his feet and handle whatever problem came his way, be it a bothersome client or a charging herd beast.He could never have prepared himself for the turmoil that Orson Callan Krennic would bring upon him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been sitting on this idea for a long time (since late Feb) and when the announcement for the IBB 2017 came out, I knew I was going to put it down as one of my fic ideas. I was thrilled when my artist was on board with it. 
> 
> This tale is set in an AU verse. The Empire exists but Orson and Wil are not part of it. I have also aged them both down into their mid-late forties. 
> 
> The art for this piece is forthcoming.

 

Wilhuff watched as the black Delta-class shuttle settled upon the landing pad with a high whine, folding its wings as it settled on the landing pad like some great bird of prey.

Wil felt it was important to always personally greet his clients as they arrived.  This action was cloaked in courtesy as it served a far more utilitarian purpose.  Wil found that the hunting excursions ran far smoother when he knew the temperament and personality of the client and a lot could be learned about an individual within the first few moments of meeting them.

This particular client was a successful Engineer/Architect by the name of Orson Krennic.  Wil was eager to meet this client.   Krennic’s numerous comms to Wil had held an attitude about them which had  rubbed Tarkin the wrong way with their overly bossy tone, speaking to Wil as if he were a mere lowly hired hand and not one of, if not _the_ most sought after hunting guides.  In fact, Krennic’s obnoxious nature had so annoyed Tarkin he had taken to the holonet to do a bit of research on the man.

As it turned out, Orson Krennic’s CV _was_ rather impressive.  It appeared he had designed a handful of buildings that served as offices for high ranking Imperial officers on Coruscant.  His work managed to snag various awards, the names of which meant little to Tarkin, but he got the impression they were rather prestigious.  

In his photographs, Orson presented an image of cocky confidence in fashionable tunics cut from fine fabrics, his chestnut hair tousled giving him a rakish charm. In most of them he wore a smug self-satisfied smile of one who had a comfortable life.  It seemed that in addition to designing buildings Orson was a bit of a playboy.  In many of the images there was an attractive companion on his arm and a cocktail held in his free hand.

Orson Krennic did not seem like the hunting sort.  Wil could not imagine why such a spoiled, wealthy man wished to take on the Carrion.   As Tarkin dug a bit deeper he found that it appeared Orson preferred going to luxurious big game reserves to bag his impressive trophies.  There were a quite a few photos with Orson, lips lazed in a confident smirk and an older model blaster rifle cradled in the crook of his arm, posing by the fallen corpse of some of the galaxy’s most prized trophies.

Appearance was deceiving as Orson apparently possessed some aptitude with a blaster. All of his kills had been handily dispatched with a shot neatly between the eyes.  The most impressive of which was a large Rancor.  It had crumpled neatly to its knees, its chin coming to rest on the forest floor.   A triumphant Orson posed casually, one arm braced against the beast.  Tarkin had shot enough game to know that for a creature to sink to its knees, with no sign of flight or fear, was the mark of a truly skilled marksman, for the shot killed the creature instantly.

The one thing that rankled Tarkin was the fact that all of Orson’s outings were to reserves which held what he liked to call “canned hunts”.  That being a hunt where the creatures were penned in with no chance of escape. Their range was limited which meant eventually you would run into a trophy class beast and if you were a half decent shot you would bag your trophy and obtain the bragging rights.  What was shameful was that most of these lodges would purchase older animals from zoos and personal collectors who had grown tired of caring for the creatures.  This meant the creatures held no fear and no understanding that interlopers to their domain could mean death.  

Tarkin had had the misfortune of escorting those types in the past.  Beings with money to burn and something to prove.  No idea how a real hunt operates, figuring they will saunter out to the Carrion and bag their trophy in the matter of a day or two.  Treating it as some blithe holiday and not a matter of wits, cunning, skill and survival. 

The Carrion did not care how many credits one held in their account.

While Tarkin did not savor the idea of babysitting yet another spoiled, wealthy brat with an ego to soothe, the fact of the matter business had been slim as of late.  Hunting was falling out of fashion with the newer generation who preferred more exciting and easily accessible distractions on which to spend their credits.  The resort needed credits for upkeep and to manage the small contingent of staff. 

Being the most experienced, and most sought after, Tarkin’s fee was the steepest of the three guides.  When the hunt was scheduled, and the costs explained in full, Orson had not batted an eye and had immediately transmitted the funds. 

He even hinted at the promise of a hefty tip if the hunt were successful. 

Tarkin’s reveiere was broken by the hiss of the shuttle’s landing ramp descending. 

Orson made his way down the ramp looking just as he did in all of those photographs.   His gait was confident as he took long strides towards Tarkin.  There was the air of privilege about him.  This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

His clothing was nothing too fancy.   He wore a tunic, snug trousers and sturdy black boots.  A blaster was at his hip and a travel cloak was about his shoulders.  The breeze tugged at the cloak, making it billow in a dramatic fashion.

In spite of Orson’s pulled together attire, his hair was a disheveled mop of chestnut curls, giving the impression that perhaps he had been sleeping on his flight. 

Krennic closed the distance and stopped, lips still quirked in a half smile.  His eyes were a rather arresting blue, piercing and sharp that pinned Wil’s gaze.  Tarkin held back a sneer in return.  His read on this man was spoiled. _Spoiled and soft._

Orson’s eyes squinted in an appraising manner as he looked Tarkin up and down. “You looked much younger in the lodge’s advert.” 

Tarkin bristled.  Yes his hair had silvered slightly, but for the most part the rich auburn color held sway.

Tarkin sniffed, biting back an acidic retort of his own.  Instead, he kept his manners and politely bowed in welcome.

“Welcome to Eriadu and to Tarkin Outfitters.”

Orson’s face softened just a bit. “Thank you.  I must say, this lodge is remarkable.”  Orson’s gaze tracked past Wil to the lodge that sat crouched against the hillside. 

Wil turned his gaze back to the lodge.  Wil’s great great great grandfather had overseen construction and was even rumored to have helped transport the dark grey stones that were used in the construction of the impressive structure.

“The design is sturdy and yet elegant.”  Orson nodded in approval.  “A building like that only gets more beautiful with the passing of time.  That stone has character.”

Tarkin couldn’t help but feel a tingle of pride at the compliment and the genuine amazement that lit Krennic’s features. 

“Thank you.  It has been in my family for generations.  If you find the exterior intriguing, I am sure you will find the interior just as fascinating.  Now then, gather your belongings and you shall be escorted to your quarters for the evening.”

Orson’s face darkened.  “Gather my bags?  Have you no service droids?  I should think you would have droids to perform such a menial task.  May I remind you I am paying plenty for this trip?  I certainly did not figure on being a sort of…pack beast.”  Krennic then sniffed in utter disgust holding Wil’s gaze in a frigid glare.

Tarkin gave a soft chuckle. He had been correct.  Krennic was indeed spoiled and soft. 

“I see no humor in this.”

Tarkin shook his head.  “I see you will be coming to a rather rude awaking during your stay.  Yes. Gather your bags.  This is not some idyllic get away.  At first light tomorrow, you and I shall be heading to the Carrion. There _you_ will be expected to make camp, haul firewood, and perhaps on occasion hunt and kill to provide for our dinner.  There will be no…droids.  There will only be you and I.  And an environment just waiting for you to take one misstep so it may rip you apart.”  Tarkin’s voice lowered to a hiss, his patience already wearing thin. “Heed my words, boy, and understand.  Out there?  The Carrion does not care one whit how many credits you have or what prestigious awards you have achieved.  Given the merest scrap of a chance she will gut you, chew you up and spit your pathetic, carcass out.  All in the blink of an eye.  Without me, you would last,” Tarkin pursed his lips in thought, “perhaps an hour.  If you are lucky.”

Orson’s face paled visibly, taken aback by Tarkin’s sudden, and rather passionate, outburst.

“D—don’t call me boy.”

“Then stop acting like one.  Now gather your things.”

Tarkin gestured to a young man that had soundlessly appeared at Tarkin’s side.  “Pera will show you to your quarters for the evening.  Dinner will be in an hour.  As I stated, we will be heading out a first light in the morning.  Please be dressed and ready to go to work.  I do abhor waiting.”

Inwardly Tarkin groaned.   He was right.   He knew this fool was going to be nothing but trouble. 

_You should have stayed in your cushy apartment on Coruscant. The Carrion is going to enjoy making you miserable._

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, Tarkin was surprised to find Krennic waiting for him beside the transport, bright eyed and seeming rather eager to be off.  He was full of questions and curiosity about the Carrion.   How long would it take to get to the hunting grounds?  Were there poisonous insects?  How and where would they sleep? 

As the lodge hands assisted in loading the transport, Tarkin did his best to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he answered Krennic’s many tedious inquiries. He made sure to stress yet again that this would not be a relaxing trip and that Krennic’s trophy would not be guaranteed.  “This is not one of your easy, “canned” hunts with prey that is half tame.” Tarkin snapped, causing Orson to yet again recoil at the bite in his tone. “We may not even see the beast you are hunting.”

“I did not expect it to be guaranteed.  I just want to know my chances,” Orson sniffed.

 _Chances are good I will be retrieving your corpse and notifying your next of kin_. Tarkin thought sourly, heaving a heavy pack of provisions into the back of the transport.

With the provisions and shelters loaded, next came the blaster rifles.  Tarkin hefted Orson’s, immediately recognizing it from the photos.  While it was a bit of an older model, it was of solid design and as he knew it packed a deadly punch.  Tarkin could not help but run an appreciative hand over the barrel.  It was beautifully maintained.  He was surprised that Orson would carry such an antiquated weapon.  His personality hinted that he would be the type to possess only the very newest, and the most expensive.    

“It was my father’s.”

Orson’s voice came directly behind Tarkin, causing him to startle and almost fumble the weapon.  He had not even heard him approach.

“It’s older but it will do. If you know how to use it.” Tarkin knew that Orson was capable with the weapon.  He just wanted to get in a dig to take the man down a peg.

 Tarkin carefully slipped the weapon back into its protective case and secured it.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Krennic snapped, as he hefted a large tarp up into the transport. 

Before getting under way, Wil made one final check over the equipment, making doubly sure each blaster had plenty of spare charges. Tarkin also took care to tuck away a few vibro knives and spears for good measure. You could never be too careful.

There was food enough for a week, two shelters, bedding, a cook stove, spare clothing, and fresh water.  There was also a modified speeder for when they reached the rough, heavily forested terrain the transport could not navigate and an anti grav litter for carrying out any game taken.  

Stepping back to admire their handiwork, Tarkin nodded in satisfaction. 

“It will be a few hours ride to our camp.  Scouts said they saw tracks, spoor, and had visual confirmation of a few large veranax. Two mature males and a small group of females.   I do assume you want to take one of the males?”

Orson nodded. “Obviously.  I am here for a trophy class animal.”

Tarkin hoisted himself up into the cabin of the transport. 

“Settle in and prepare yourself for the next few days. It will not be easy.  It will be like nothing you have ever encountered before.  This will be a true hunt that tests your skills.  And believe me, you will leave here changed.  The Carrion gets into your blood.  You will carry a bit of it with you for the rest of your days.  If you survive, that is.”

Krennic shrugged and hoisted himself into the seat beside Wil. 

“How bad can it be?”

Only a few hours in and already Orson’s laissez faire attitude was beginning to grate on Tarkin’s nerves.

It had to be a record.


	2. Chapter 2

 

As the transport lumbered its way towards the camp, Orson settled into his seat and peered out the window, taking in his surroundings.   Tarkin, playing the part of a proper guide, would bring items of interest to Orson’s attention such as the various species of the herd beasts that loped and strutted over the grasslands, various ancient rock formations, and flocks of colorful birds.  

During the lull in conversation, Tarkin surreptitiously slid glances Krennic’s way. 

Did Orson realize the enormity and the danger of the task he had decided to undertake?  He could not have chosen a more challenging prey.  The veranax tried the skills of even the most experienced of hunters.  Of course Tarkin had managed to bring down more than few, and yet each one was a test of his strength and wits.  Pushing his skills to the limit.  And each hunt had been different with regards to the creature’s temperament and the tactics involved with tracking and bringing the animal down.  

Finding a veranax was difficult as the creatures were rather secretive.  They kept to themselves in Eriadu’s dense jungles.  Their long, muscular bodies were well suited for navigating the dense undergrowth of the jungle floor while their mottled, coarse pelts offered superior camouflage.  Their boxy skulls were compact with small rounded ears that could swivel and pinpoint sounds.  The heavy jaws were filled with curved teeth well suited for ripping and tearing large chunks of flesh from their victims.  On the fore and rear limbs, long, curved claws (which were more pronounced in the males) served as weapons and were used to carve great furrows in the ground to mark territories.

The veranax also possessed intelligence.  They learned and they remembered. They also on occasion would cooperate with each other.  While for most of the year the beasts lead a solitary existence, during the heard beasts’ calving season, the veranax would gather and join forces, cooperating in herding and harassing the herd, breaking down the defenses and forcing the newborn calves from their mother’s sides. 

Tarkin recalled the cool, collected way the beasts would run down their prey, singling one out and wearing it down to exhaustion, separating the calf from the protection of its mother’s slashing hooves and sharp horns.   Once successful the veranax would then feast, the bereft mothers wandering aimlessly and bawling in destress as their calves were ripped apart and consumed.

There was one minor thing that would make this hunt all the more difficult.   It was the veranax mating season.  The females, normally relatively docile, would be agitated and more prone to charging unprovoked.  The males during this rut would be even more dangerous, guarding their territories with ferocity. 

He hoped Orson was a good shot under pressure as a wounded veranax would not stop no matter how grievous the wound.  For he and Orson’s safety, the first shot would have to be the only shot.  Veranax skulls were thick and it was not unheard of for a blaster bolt to glance right off of them. If that happened with Orson, the only hope would be to stop the beast’s forward locomotion by shooting its legs out from under it, dropping the creature, before placing a shot to the head.  Tarkin recalled that picture of Orson and the rancor he had taken.  It appeared he managed to drop the beast with one neat shot between the eyes.  Rancor, however, were different. They were slower. And not as intelligent. Veranax were on a whole other level.

The fact of the matter was no matter Tarkin’s opinion or thoughts on how capable Orson was, he had paid the credits for the privilege to hunt the creatures.  As his guide, Wil would do his best to provide Orson the opportunity to bag one of the beasts. 

Sighing he again stole a glance at Krennic, who was watching the landscape spooling past.   The breeze from the open window ruffled his hair and he was wearing a slight smile, looking for all the world he was on leave at a pleasure resort with not a care in the world.

Wil was pretty sure that smile wouldn’t be on Orson’s face for very much longer.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Orson studied Tarkin as he navigated the speeder towards the campsite.  Wil seemed focused on navigating, his face stern. 

The man had the personality of a wet rock. 

He studied Tarkin’s profile.  He held an unconventional attractiveness, Orson admitted, if one was into cold, severe features.  With thin lips pressed into a mirthless line and piercing eyes, his face held no warmth or kindness.   

Wil’s body may have appeared to be on the frail side, Orson had watched as Wil had ferried heavy crates and bags bulging with equipment and provisions and then hoisting them aboard the transport with relative ease, cords of muscle working and flexing under the skin of his straining forearms.  Wil’s steps were sure and never faltered.  It was obvious this was a body honed by hard work and harsh conditions.   Orson had prided himself on staying in shape and maintaining a high level of fitness but there was a part of him that wondered if perhaps he would hold Wil back. This was Tarkin’s element.  His world.

Krennic returned his attention back to the passing landscape. The lodge had long ago disappeared behind them and it seemed the transport was swallowed by rolling verdant grasslands.  The further out they progressed, the more wildlife revealed themselves. 

Orson marveled at great herd beasts with wide, palmate antlers sprouting from their skulls.  As the transport lumbered past, a large male with antlers spanning nearly 2 meters across, staged a mock charge bellowing and snorting.  It stopped short and pawed at the black soil, sweeping its massive antlers over the ground, catching up clods of dirt and grass in the tines. As Orson watched the beast’s display of bravado, he wished his rifle were handy for he would have liked to have taken a few practice shots.

As they made their way, Tarkin’s icy demeanor thawed somewhat, making a genuine effort to bring things of interest to Krennic’s attention.   When the conversation fell into a lull, Orson could sense Tarkin watching him, studying him as if _he_ were the creature being hunted.  

At last the grassland melded into a rough scrubland and then at last their journey came to an end as they reached the edge of dense jungle. 

Orson openly gaped as he tried to peer through the cover of trees that stood like silent sentinels, some with trunks as wide across as three men, thick ropy vines twining about the trunks and stretching up into the branches above. 

Tarkin smiled at Orson’s look of stunned amazement.   Clapping a hand on his shoulder his quipped, “See now boy, the real fun begins.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

With the trees looming around them, Orson and Wil unloaded the transport and prepared to set up camp in a rough clearing. 

Before fully committing to a spot, Orson had noted Tarkin walking about, very carefully studying the ground. 

Curiosity getting the better of him Orson finally asked, “What exactly are you looking for.”

Tarkin’s head shot up and he offered a light smile. “Making sure we are not on a game trail.  I don’t know about you but I really don’t want any unexpected company looking for an easy meal.”

In no time, and with minimal cursing, the two shelters were erected, the speeder checked over to be sure it was in prime working order, supplies stashed, and a small fire was crackling well before nightfall.

Wil seemed preoccupied checking over some equipment so Orson took the opportunity to do a bit of exploring, mindful to stay in sight of the encampment.  Around him the trees and vines seemed to press in.  Insects buzzed and screamed in the foliage.  Voices of animals he could not identify screeched, trilled, and chattered.

Orson didn’t need to venture far, as there was plenty to observe a stone’s throw from camp. Strange, small mammals skittered away from his footfalls.  There were small brown lizards with vibrant orange eyes clinging to the tree trunks.  There were vibrant flowers and vines bearing a strange fruit the color of an old bruise, lumpy, misshapen and approximately the size of a man’s fist. 

“Do you want to eat or would you rather hike?” 

Wil’s voice held an annoyed tone as one would use with a bothersome child.

Orson nodded and made his way back to the fire.  His stomach was rumbling and the thoughts of a meal made his mouth water.

Sadly the meal was nothing more than a glorified ration tin.  Orson remembered the fruit he had seen as he had been exploring and inquired as to if they were edible.

Tarkin snorted, “You eat those you’ll be dead before your body hits the ground. That fruit possess a strong neurotoxin. We use their juice on the tips of wooden stakes at the bottom of our drive pits.”

Krennic must have looked baffled.

Poking at the fire, Tarkin mused, “This might be a good time to go over some rules.” 

“I believe it goes without saying you should not stray far from my side.  Obviously no recreational drinking. Don’t drink any water without my go ahead. Also, I would refrain from bathing in certain ponds.  They contain tiny crustaceans that like to…attach themselves...in the most unfortunate of areas.” 

 Krennic’s face visibly blanched. 

Tarkin grinned, and continued. 

 “Also as we are going along take care to watch for a scrap of white fabric, usually hung up in a branch.  That marks a drive pit.  Sometimes we hold drive hunts, usually for terra wolves, and force the quarry into these pits.  The stakes at the bottom do the job of a blaster rifle.  We coat the stakes with a mixture comprised of that juice from the fruit you saw.”  Tarkin shrugged.  “The toxin might be a bit of overkill but you really cannot be too careful out here.”

 “Well, is there _anything_ we can eat here? Besides the creatures we shoot?”

Tarkin nodded.  “Oh there is plenty if you know what to look for.  There are various fungi, some tubers. There are some fruits and berries that are safe.  Leave the food gathering to me.  I wouldn’t worry about food.  We have plenty of provisions to last the week.”  Wil yawned and stretched.  “Now then, I suggest we rest up.   This won’t be our permanent campsite.  We will take that speeder to get a bit deeper in.  We can make the rest of the way on foot and start tracking our quarry.” 

Tarkin saw Orson’s sour expression.  “I told you.  This isn’t some cushy resort hunt.  If you manage to bring a veranax down, it will be hard earned, not handed to you on a silver platter.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Over the course of the next few days, Tarkin had to admit that Krennic proved to be much more capable than he initially appeared.  Aside from his initial complaining, Orson turned out to be a rather capable worker, performing any task that Wil directed him to do efficiently and with no complaint. 

Krennic proved his skill as good shot.  To Wil’s annoyance, Orson had slipped away from camp one afternoon. Tarkin, cursing under his breath, had gone to retrieve him only to watch as Orson picked off a fat little wiltrip.  Wiltrip were mid-sized, deer-like creatures that were skittish and hid in the scrub. They were tasty but tricky to catch unaware.

Orson had managed to creep up on the creature without alerting it to his presence and took the shot.  The little creature crumpled to the ground dead before it had even knew what hit it.

Orson, catching sight of Wil and realizing he had observed the whole thing, merely shrugged and retorted, “Dinner.”

Tarkin took the opportunity to stress that wandering off alone was not wise and next time may not hold as pleasant an outcome.

“What did I tell you that first night?  Don’t go wandering off without me,” Tarkin snarled as he approached.  “You do not know these lands as I do. There is no need to go wandering about to prove anything.  I would have been happy to go along with you.”

Orson’s lips lazed into a grin.  “I am touched by your concern.  You seemed preoccupied and I was rather tired of those tinned dinners.  I wanted something a bit fresher.  Now…are there any sorts of vegetables we can roast alongside the meat of this…thing?”

Tarkin felt color rise in his cheeks.  Concern?  “Please do not confuse my desire to keep my clients safe with concern as to regards of your personal wellbeing.”  Heaving a sigh he shook his head.  He didn’t want to admit that he shared Orson’s opinion on the tinned meals having had lost their luster. They were convenient and nutrious but as flavorful as mud.

“Yes.  By the stream we can dig up some roots that will do rather nicely. After we get this dressed I will show you.  We might even find some greens for a bit of a salad.”

Krennic shrugged and gazed down at the dead animal. “I don’t suppose you brought along any wine or even some ale?”

Tarkin could only gape in astonishment, his mouth falling open slightly.

Just when Orson managed to earn a scrap of respect, his spoiled nature once more reared its head and snuffed it out.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The haunch of meat sputtered and hissed on the spit and Tarkin had to admit its savory aroma was making his stomach growl. 

As foolish as it had been, he was glad that Krennic had taken the initiative.

Orson returned to his seat by the fire, holding what appeared to be a bottle in one hand.

“What is that? Where did you get that?

With a smile of triumph, Orson hoisted the bottle for Wil to see. “Oh I have my tricks.  Can’t celebrate my first kill of the outing without a fine Corellian red now can we?  The cups are crude, won’t showcase the fine color but no bother.  It is what it is.”  Orson began to search for something to pour the wine into.

“Might I see the bottle?”

Krennic nodded and with a smile, passed the tapered bottle to Tarkin’s waiting hand.

Tarkin pursed his lips in appreciation. “My…this is _quite_ an exquisite vintage.”  He looked up to meet Orson’s gaze.  “I would think you would have preferred to keep this for when you bagged your prize.”

Tarkin then made a great show of sniffing the open bottle.  Closing his eyes in bliss, he murmured, “The bouquet is amazing.  I smell leather, a hint of redberry, and I do believe…starshwood. Yes. Definitely starshwood.  Mellow and yet….strong.”

Orson smiled, eyes brightening. “So you _do_ appreciate a fine vintage.”

Tarkin smiled, and then holding the bottle aloft as if he were further admiring it, carried it to over to a stand of trees and slowly upended it, dumping the crimson liquid onto the ground.

“What are you doing you kriffing idiot!”  Orson’s eye widened in horror as he watched Tarkin dump 1000 credits worth of wine onto the ground without even batting an eye.

Bottle emptied of its contents, Tarkin sneered as he tossed it aside.  It clattered in the undergrowth and rolled out of sight.

“What did I saw about alcohol on this trip?  Was I not…clear enough for you?”

“I merely thought it was a suggestion, not a hard and fast rule.  Do you _realize_ how much that _cost_?”

“And how much is your life worth?” Tarkin snarled in return, eyes flinty in the flickering light of the campfire.

“That was MY property.”

Tarkin noticed that the more agitated and angry Orson got, the more pronounced his lisp became to the point it was nearly comical.

Tarkin again took his seat near the flickering flames, turning the spit so the meat roasted evenly.

“You still think this is some…relaxing little excursion, don’t you?  You don’t really grasp just how dangerous my world is. The Carrion.  You do not…respect her.”

Orson gaped.  “Respect…her?  What…you in love with this place?”  Orson snorted and took his seat across from Tarkin, glaring through the flickering flames.

Tarkin shook his head, poking at the fire.

“Let me tell you a story.  A story about just how unforgiving this land is and how kriffing brutal this beast you wish to hunt can be.”

Orson opened his mouth as if he were to retort, and then closed it.  Tarkin’s tone held an edge that hinted an interruption at this point would not be in Orson’s best interest.

Tarkin paused and as Orson watched him, it seemed the man was drifting off to someplace distant. Distant and very dark.

“It was one of my first trips out as a guide.  It was a small party, a senator wanting to prove their mettle, me, one other tracker, and a droid.  I used droids back then to help pack things in and out, you see”

Tarkin paused, his eyes distant as he remembered.

“We had tracked a young male veranax. It wasn’t a trophy by any means.  It was young, maybe two seasons.  We were hunting it more out of boredom than anything.  The senator had taken a shot and wounded the animal and it was bleeding rather copiously.  It was a text book track and trap. Simple.  We had the beast wounded and trapped.”

“Or so we thought.  We followed the blood trail to a little culvert and the blood just…stopped.  Turns out it had managed to climb up the steep embankment and came up behind us.  Before we even knew what happened it pounced and ripped tracker’s head clean off his shoulders.  The senator froze, panicked and completely useless.  I managed to gather my senses, level my blaster and caught the bastard high in the shoulder.  It should have been a lethal shot but all it did was score the beast’s hide and infuriate it all the further.”

Tarkin paused for a few heartbeats.  Just when Orson thought perhaps he was going to quit the tale, he continued. 

“It charged me and I only managed to escape by lunging up a rocky outcropping and then shimmying up a tree.  I could only watch as it tore the rest of my party to shreds. The droid managed to escape but only barely.”

“I managed to send a comm for help but I was pinned there for the rest of the day and night.  And that beast watched me. It was like it was marking my face.  Remembering.  Even though it was pitch dark safe for the cold glint of starlight above, I knew it was down there.  I could hear its heavy tread. Smell its reek. The dank musk of its urine as it marked the tree as its own. Marking me as its kill. Bear in mind this was basically a youngster. It wasn’t even a full grown adult.”

“By daybreak the bodies of the tracker and the senator had been mostly consumed.  The veranax was gone but I knew it wasn’t far.  It was hoping I would break cover.”

Tarkin sighed.  “Finally the rescue party arrived, retrieved me.  I had learned a very harsh lesson.  In later seasons I successfully managed to track and take down many a veranax.  Each time I hoped it had would be the one that had held me hostage.”

Tarkin grew silent and poked the fire. Red embers swirled in a vain effort to reach the stars glinting above.

“So you see boy, even if you are prepared. At the top of your game. Razor sharp.  The Carrion and the beasts that dwell within it, will take you, rip you apart, and then take a piss on your corpse.”

Orson swallowed hard before murmuring, “And yet you still love it.”  

“Yes. I do.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The next few days were spent tracking through the dense jungle and coming up empty.  While Orson understood that there was no guarantee of a successful hunt, the lack of any evidence of his quarry was disheartening.  

When not tracking, they spent their time recovering the camp. Wil was always sure to check in with the lodge and file a brief progress report each day.   It seemed that Wil was always busy fussing with one thing or another.  Orson found Wil’s constant need to be doing something annoying. 

Orson tried his best to not grow too bored during these lulls.  Any time he offered to help, Wil would wave him off.

He then remembered the stream and the allure of a cool dip, and the opportunity to rinse away the grime he had accumulated while slogging through the mud, proved too much of a temptation. Orson cast a quick glance in Wil’s direction and found him preoccupied with the speeder, he took the opportunity to quietly slip away.    

As he made his way to the stream, he cast glances over his shoulder to be certain Wil wasn’t following him.  Reaching the water’s edge, Orson shucked off his boots and peeled of his tunic and trousers and slipped into the green waters with a sigh of relief. Wil had earlier informed him there were no creatures looking to hitch a ride dwelling here.  The cool water sluiced over his body, rinsing way grime and fatigue.  Orson wished he could linger but he knew Wil would be looking for him look a worried broodhen as soon as he noticed that Orson was gone.  He hurriedly splashed water on his face and arms, hoping to return before Wil was none the wiser.

He was just ready to exit the pool when he noticed the surrounding jungle had grown quiet. The insects had even ceased their shrieking.

Orson’s gut tightened in fear.

He’s was being watched.

~*~**~*~*~*~*~*

Wil wiped his hands on some leaves and surveyed his handiwork.

“Shall we head back out?  We have a good few hours of daylight left.”

Silence.

Wil’s eyes swept over the camp to find no sign of Orson.

_Now where had that fool gone off to? He is worse than a child. Tell him one thing and he does the damned opposite_

“Orson?”

He surely could not have gone far. Perhaps he had gone to the stream to fetch water.  Wil holstered his blaster (just in case) and picked his way along the packed dirt that served as a trail to the stream. 

Orson was there. But he wasn’t gathering water.

Wil’s stomach tightened as he caught sight of the man, nude as on his birthing day, bathing in the green water, carefree as if he were on a holiday. 

Wil gathered the breath to shout out and tell Orson to get his fool ass out of the water.

The words withered and died in his throat.  Wil stood transfixed as he watched, frozen in place.

_Like some fool pervert._

And yet.

Wil watched Orson’s muscles flex and bunch as he scrubbed the grime from his body and face.  He then allowed his gaze to track down further south, spying Orson’s pink cock offset by a thatch of darker hair.   Wil felt his cheeks begin to burn.

As if sensing his presence, Orson stopped and glanced about. If he looked this way he would see Wil watching him.

That wasn’t something he wanted Orson to be lording over his head. 

Holding his breath, he slowly backtracked, hoping against hope he wouldn’t step on a twig and alert Orson to his location.

Once safely out of Orson’s line of sight, he puffed out a breath. 

Why didn’t he just hail Orson? Tell him to get out of the water and return to camp? 

He was just another client after all.

A few moments later Orson swaggered back into the camp, hair damp and looking refreshed.

Wil hopped the flush had left his cheeks as he busied himself arranging a tarp in an attempt to conceal the fact he had been spying.

“I told you not to go slinking off without me.”

Orson raked a hand through his hair and smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. 

“Aww. Were you worried about me?  You knew where I was.”

Wil turned to hide his flushed face, now focusing intently on a pack of supplies. “Don’t do it again.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~

Finally, on the fifth day, they found what they had been looking for.  Wil stopped short and pointed to the ground. Orson’s gaze fell upon great ruts in the black soil, 3 meters in length.  Whatever had created these deep gouges possessed enormous strength.   Orson tilted his head as he studying them.  “What are we looking at, exactly?”

 “What we have been searching for, and coming up empty this entire week.  Sign of your prey.  These are its markings and by the looks of it, these were made by a rather sizable male in rut.” 

Krennic’s gaze again fell to the violent gouges in the ground.

_Finally._

After slogging for days in this miserable jungle and after he was beginning to think that perhaps Tarkin was a bit touched in the head, _finally_ a sign of his quarry.  

Tarkin straightened, his demeanor a bit more diligent now that there was evidence that a veranax was in the near vicinity.  It was hard to gauge just how old the marking was as it hadn’t rained recently, but the dirt appeared freshly turned.

It would be best that both men assumed the beast was within earshot. 

“Extra care must be taken.  I am going to ask that you stay here, do not move.  I will return shortly.”

Before Orson could offer up a protest, Wil turned and melted into the surrounding undergrowth.  True to his word, he returned within 30 minutes, clutching what appeared to be three small, brown rodent-like creatures.

“I feel it best we mask our scent, just to be on the safe side. The longer the veranax is oblivious to our intrusion, the better.”  Pulling out his vibroblade, Tarkin proceeded to eviscerate the creatures, removing a small, round organ from each carcass. 

“Come here.”

“What is that?”  Orson’s mouth skewed into a grimace.  “I am not smearing…innards on myself.  What do you take me for?”  The smell was atrocious, causing bile to surge into the back of Orson’s throat as it assaulted his nostrils.  Stars he could almost _taste_ it, it was so vile and pungent.

“If you wish to live then I strongly suggest you apply these secretions.  It will mask our odor.  I know it isn’t pleasant but I find staying alive and in one piece worth putting up with smelling a bit…unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant?  It smells like something that has been putrefying for weeks.”

Wil narrowed his eyes in annoyance and Orson could tell that pushing the issue further will make life rather difficult.  Heaving a sigh of resignation, Orson grudgingly accepted the offered round gland, and gagging (perhaps a bit more for dramatic effect than anything) began to smear the milky, vile smelling fluid on his clothing.

With a nod of approval Wil motioned to continue forward. 

“Here on in, no talking. Understood?  And keep your eyes open. Assume the creature is just ahead.”

Wil had to admit after days of nothing, the prospect of the hunt finally being on got his heart racing a bit.  They had their blasters, but the rifles had been left behind at the camp.  Wil cursed the oversight.

They pushed their way further into the underbrush and scrub. Sharp thorns tore at their flesh and thick, black mud hungrily sucked at their boots, hindering their progress.  

Orson was wondering if they should just call it a day and pick it up early the next day when Wil stopped short, holding out his arm to stop Orson’s progress.  With a finger to his lips, his eyes narrowed in caution, Wil motioned to a break in the undergrowth. 

Orson’s face broke out into a triumphant smile, finally seeing the creature he had set to kill in the flesh. 

It was a male veranax ripping apart and gorging itself upon a fresh kill.   Orson marveled at just how large the creature was.  It was hard to judge at this distance but Orson put the beasts length at 4 meters easily.

Orson’s excitement is catching and Tarkin finds his own heart hammering with the thrill of the chase.  At the moment they seem to be in no immediate danger.  Tarkin offers a slight smile and nods to Orson, then returns his attention the veranax.

Tarkin takes a moment to analyze their situation.  The beast is massive, a male in its prime years, and most assuredly a trophy class animal.  The beast is so consumed by bloodlust it is oblivious and is a tempting target.  Again Wil silently curses the fact they left their blaster rifles back at the camp, though to be honest it would be almost impossible to take a clear shot from their position.   

Tarkin’s eyes again sweep over the creature and his stomach lurches as his eyes then focus upon a faded scar upon its haunches.  

_Could it be?_

It was none other than the veranax that had ravaged his hunting party all those seasons ago.

The last time Wil had laid eyes upon the creature it was a youngster.  The creature had matured into a formidable beast.   

Wil was sure his scent had imprinted on the creature.  If it caught wind of them, it would most certainly remember him as the quarry that had escaped.

Tarkin quickly did a mental check of the current conditions.  Fortunately he and Orson were under the thick cover of the brush and vines and praise the stars Wil had made Orson douse himself in the scent covering musk. 

There, at the moment anyways, was no hint of a breeze that would carry their scent to the massive carnivore.  Even though they were both doused in a masking scent, a sudden unexplained cloud of odor would alert the veranax that something was not quite right in its world.

Tarkin slid his glance to Orson who stood gawking in awe at the beast, not aware of just how much danger they are in. If that beast would decide to charge them, it could get very, VERY messy.

The beast continues to gorge, occasionally lifting its blood soaked muzzle to survey its territory.  The carcass is so mangled it is difficult to determine what type of creature it had been. 

The veranax then paused in its feasting and gives a low growling chuff of warning, swinging its head to and fro, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring in agitation.  Its course coat rippling, it begins to pace around it is kill, holding its head high with nostrils flaring as it tests the air, suddenly on full alert. 

A low, blood curdling rumble erupts from its throat.

Hearing that, Tarkin’s bowels turn to water.

Surely not.

 _Surely_ it cannot know they are here. 

He then grabs Orson’s arm and squeezes in a vice grip as warning to stay still and quiet.  The warning is not necessary for Orson’s face has gone pale and Tarkin knows that he, too, now realizes the dire situation they may be in.

The beast chuffs again and then releases an arching stream of urine as it begins to rake long gouges in the ground.  

The kill now marked to its satisfaction, then then turns its head and seems to be staring directly at the two men hiding in the undergrowth.  It does not move or blink and Tarkin’s hand slowly moves to the blaster at his side.

_Go on. Charge. Do it if you are going to do it._

The beast continues to gaze in their direction.  It is only a few seconds but seems like hours.  Then, with another chuff of agitation the creature ambles off and is swallowed by the trees.

Neither man moves or speaks for a good five minutes. 

Orson is the first to break the quiet.

“So that was a veranax.  The creature is even more impressive in real life. I mean, I have seen photos and such but up close and personal.  What an impressive addition to my study that head will make.”

Orson’s words tumble out in his excitement.

Wil only nods, still lost in his thoughts at yet again meeting the creature that had almost done him in.

Thunder rumbles in the distance and with a start Wil realizes how a deepening gloom has overtaken the jungle. Casting a glance darkening sky above, Wil realizes they will need to get moving.

“We need to make our way back to camp.  Seems we have a rather nice storm headed our way.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

As they made their way it became obvious the storm would overtake them before they reached the camp. 

In moments there was a torrent of rain that beat its way through the leafy canopy to soak the two men to the skin in seconds.

Orson shuddered as the rain found its way down the back of his tunic, cold water trickling way down to the small of his back. 

“We need to find shelter and soon. We’ll either drown or be struck by lightning.”

Wil nodded in agreement.

“I have a hide I use that is not far ahead.  It will be cramped but it will keep us out of this weather. We can get dried off and spend the night.”

The hide’s floor consisted of a crater left by the roots of an immense tree blown over by a previous storm. Crude walls were formed by a jumble of boulders.  The thatch of overhanging roots, leaves, and branches formed a surprisingly watertight roof.  Indeed it was bit cramped and it smelled of mold and wet earth, but it was relatively dry.  Orson ducked under the overhanging roots, relieved to be no longer pelted by the cold water.

He began to shiver.

Getting warm was the first order of business.  Fortunately Wil kept a small cord of wood stashed in the hide, covered by canvas to keep it dry, for situations such as this.     

The fire grew, tenuous at first, and as fed on the wood and gained strength, it cast shadows behind them, twisting their shapes into grotesque, jagged forms.

Orson’s mind kept wandering to the veranax that was out there.  If it suspected intruders were in its territory the hunters would become the hunted.  He hoped the creature disliked the rain and chose to seek shelter. 

He noted that the steady rain and effectively rinsed away the masking scent of the rodent. 

“Well at least we do not reek any longer.” Orson cast a glance at Wilhuff.  The man raked his hand through his auburn hair, lips puffing out as he exhaled roughly.

“We need to get warm. We are both soaked through and if our body temperature drops…”

Wil’s voice trailed off.

“What do you suggest?  We have no dry clothing. It is back at the camp. Which we cannot currently get to because of this infernal downpour.”

“It is full dark anyways,” Wil murmured.  “Traipsing about in the dark around here isn’t the wisest of options.”

“I thought you said the veranax were not nocturnal creatures.”  Orson settled in next to Wil with a huff.  Stars he was tired.  Wet. Tired. And yet in spite of these rather miserable circumstances they found themselves in, he found his stomach was still tingling with excitement. Finally spotting the creature that was to be his trophy had buoyed his spirits. 

But if he wanted to be honest that wasn’t the only thing creating a flutter in his belly.

Over these past few days he had found himself--how could he put it-- appreciating Wilhuff.

Yes, his interactions with the stern guide had been a bit-- rocky at first.  In spite of the rough start and Tarkin’s obvious annoyance with him Orson felt that over these last few days he had proven himself to be rather capable in this challenging environment.  He knew Tarkin felt he was spoiled and used to being catered to.   Orson found that was an assumption many had made about him.  And he had always proved them wrong, often using the guise of being soft and incapable to his advantage both in business and pleasure.

Orson was observant and there were more than a few times he had noticed the guide covertly watching him.  The flush that crept into the man’s cheeks when he realized he had been caught also did not escape Orson’s keen eye. 

The fact that he was able to ruffle the gruff guide’s composure pleased Orson immensely.   To be fair, Wil wasn’t the type Orson usually went for. His tastes ran towards the well-heeled, cultured types.  Cringing, Orson again recalled how Wil had unceremoniously dumped out that full bottle of Coruscant red into the bushes.  Yet before he had done so, it seemed Wil had known, and appreciated, the vintage much more than a typical backwater hunting guide should. 

Tarkin shot Orson a sharp, startled glance as he settled himself close, pressing into Tarkin’s sphere of personal space.

The fire was gaining strength, chasing away the damp, and soon the little shelter began to grow comfortable, almost cozy. 

Tarkin took a deep breath, almost as if he were gathering strength to express what he was about to say.

“We need to get out of these wet clothes and try to dry them by the fire.”  Wil stared straight ahead, avoiding Orson’s gaze. “We can drape them on sticks. The heat should dry them in an hour or so. Maybe less. It’s caught rather nicely.”

Why did Wil care if they had to shed their clothing?  There was nothing to be ashamed of. Unless…

Orson could barely suppress a grin. 

He saw his opening and pounced.

His voice purred, “That is a fabulous idea, but really will if you wanted me out of my clothing I think you could have found another way to go about it.

Tarkin turned to face Orson, eyes snapping in barely reserved anger. “I am trying to…save our lives.  This isn’t some awkward attempt at seduction.  If you wish to get hypothermia from wet clothing, be my guest.”

Orson’s lips lazed into a cocky smirk.  “I’ve seen you, Wil. I feel your eyes on me when you think I am not aware.  Your gaze is heavy. Hungry.  What are you thinking of, Wil?  Oh...and I know you saw me, you watched me bathing in the stream that other day.  I heard you. I saw you there crouched in the scrub.  Why didn’t you leave?  I assume you liked what you saw. 

Wil went to stand and move away but Orson caught Wil’s wrist in his hand.

Color flooded Wil’s cheeks though from anger or from embarrassement Orson could not quite tell.

“I…wasn’t watching you,” Tarkin managed to keep his voice smooth and even. “I was keeping an eye on you. Because you run off like an errant child.” Tarkin tried to pull his wrist from Orson’s grip. Orson only tightened his grip in response and then leaned close, his lips almost, but not quite, brushing against Wil’s ear.  His voice was a low whisper that Wil had to strain to hear. 

“You underestimate me.  Everybody does.  I am used to it and I use it to my…advantage.”

 Orson increased the pressure of his grip ever so slightly, now skimming his thumb over the damp skin of Wil’s upturned wrist. 

He reveled in Wil’s sharp intake of breath at the contact.

Feeding upon the man’s unease, Orson continued, in a voice honey thick.  “I have been watching you, you know.  You really are not my type and yet you hold a certain…curiosity.”

“I do not _fuck_ my clients,” Wil sputtered, yet again trying to pull away from Orson’s grip although this time his attempt was halfhearted.

“Did I say I wanted to fuck you?”  Orson chuckled lightly.  “I said you hold a curiosity.  At first glance I thought you were nothing more than a bit of…oh how do I say this…a savage?  But as we spend our days together, I am learning different.  But I _never_ said I wanted to fuck you.  Is that what you are reading into this?”

“No.”

“That was a rather tenuous ‘no’.”

“I do not do that with clients.  I am professional.  I have a reputation.”

Orson stole a glance at Tarkin’s trousers, not surprised to see the bulge straining at the wet material.

“Ah.  I see.  Is that why you are hard? Perhaps your cock cares not one whit about your so called reputation.”

Tarkin did not answer, his throat working as he swallowed.

Orson felt he had tormented Wil enough for now.  Giving Wil’s wrist a final firm and yet gentle squeeze for emphasis, Orson purred, “I hope it doesn’t bother you that I do not wear undergarments.  It won’t, correct?  I mean you being so very _professional_ and all.”

Releasing Tarkin’s wrist Orson stood, his muscles complaining from being held in such a cramped position for far too long.

He grabbed two gnarled branches to serve as a makeshift drying rack, tossing one to Wil, and then removed his sodden boots, placing them close to the fire to dry before proceeding to completely undress.

Orson did not bother to turn and see if Wil was watching.  He didn’t have to.  He could feel Wil’s gaze burning into his back, with a heat and intensity that rivaled the crackling flames of the fire before him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

They did not speak again, only sitting in silence and watching the dancing flames.   It did not take long for the fire to dry their clothing.  Orson sighed in pleasure as the warm, dry cloth settled against his skin.  

The rain had finally slowed to a soft patter and thunder complained far in the distance.  It seemed the worst of the storm was over.   Orson tossed another branch on the snapping flames and shot a glance at Tarkin, who made it a point to not meet Orson’s gaze after their earlier confrontation.

Finally, Wil spoke.  “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.  I say we turn in.”  He began to fashion a sleeping spot, gathering fallen leaves and soft moss to form a crude pallet to serve as cushion from the damp dirt.

Orson didn’t want to think about what types of creatures might be slithering and creeping through the leaf litter.

“Hopefully this damned rain hasn’t washed the veranax’s spoor away.”

“Well, I am sure you will find my quarry soon enough.”  Orson wanted to thaw the awkward chill that had settled over them. 

He conceded that perhaps he had pushed just a bit too much.

Tarkin smiled thinly in acknowledgement.

Orson then began to scan the ground for leaves to gather for his own sleeping area.

The hide was really only meant to provide shelter for one.  With two it was rather cramped and only offered one space directly facing the fire in which to lay out and sleep.  As was his right, Wil had claimed the spot closest to the fire.  That meant the only spot left was near to the entrance of the hide, where the cool air would be at Orson’s back.

That left only one option.  The spot directly _behind_ Wil.  It would be warm and Orson reasoned if anything came snuffling into their little hide hole, it would see Wil first.

With grand flourish Orson gathered up leaves and moss and carefully began piling it behind Wil’s chosen sleeping spot.

Wil glowered but said nothing. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself.”

Wil settled onto his makeshift bed and huffed, “Just be still and get some sleep.  Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

In a matter of moments, the man was snoring softly, out cold.

Orson settled onto his makeshift bed, again pushing the thought of any creatures that may be bedding with him.  Stretching out and trying to get comfortable, he watched Wil’s form, silhouetted by the dancing flames. 

In spite of the cushion of leaves, the damp ground seeped through his clothing, once again chilling him.  Without thinking he eased closer to Wil’s body.  He did say he would behave, but this was a survival situation.  He was cold. What if he caught a chill?  Being that he was the paying client, he should have had the choice spot close the fire.  This was Orson’s thought process and his justification for settling in close and then easing an arm over Wil’s sleeping form.

Wil did not stir. 

The man’s body heat began to seep through Orson’s clothing, warming him.

Lulled by the comfort, Orson’s hand began to explore, seemingly on its own accord.  He could feel the man’s lean body through the rough, thin material of his tunic and trousers.  The tentative exploratory touch melded into more of a caress. 

_I’ll stop the instant Wil awakens._

As his hand lazed Orson found his cock swelling in his trousers.  Shifting his hips, he pressing his arousal into the small of Wil’s back.  If he were awake he would most _certainly_ feel that and object if he found it...unpleasant.

Wil made no sound and gave no indication that he was rousing from his slumber.  

Orson’s hand continued its leisurely exploration finding its way to the front of Wil’s trousers where he was mildly surprised to find a rather healthy bulge.  Orson smiled to himself, and then pressed his palm flat and firm against the erection straining against the fabric.

At last Wil stirred, murmuring in his sleep, pressing his hips hungrily against Orson’s hand.

_He wants it._

Orson began to find it difficult to breath.  Swallowing hard he eased forward and pressed his lips to the back of Wil’s neck, allowing them to settle upon the Wil’s skin.  The man’s scent flooded his nostrils, the musky aroma of sweat mixed with the sharp tang of the earth upon which they lay.

As Orson’s lips made contact, Wil moaned softly.

 _Was he now awake?_  

Orson paused, ceasing his teasing press upon Wil’s cock.

Wil was silent once more.

After a heartbeat, Orson resumed his tease only now easing his hand down the front of Wil’s trousers, enclosing his fingers around the straining flesh.  He then began to feather them gently up and down the shaft, a finger teasing at the precome gathered at the cockhead.

Again Wil moaned and Orson propped himself up to peer at Wil’s face. 

He was indeed awake, his eyes bright in the firelight, lips parted slightly.  Orson watched as Wil’s tongue darted out and licked at his lower lip.

Not stopping his teasing caresses to Wil’s cock, Orson leaned down and pressed his lips close to the shell of Wil’s ear.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“W…what are you doing?” Wil’s voice was low, husky and only served to heighten Orson’s arousal.

Giving Wil’s cock a gentle squeeze, and then closing his fist around the straining shaft, he began to pump in slow teasing pulls.

“I said, do you want me to stop?  I respect the fact that you have to be professional.  I, however, do not.”   Orson could barely get his words out.  His breathing was ragged pants as he continued to pleasure Wil.

Wil’s only answer was bucking his hips hard into Orson’s hand, his cock pushing greedily searching for more friction, more pressure.

Finally his voice rasped, “N—no. Don’t stop.”

Orson then presses his free hand down the front of his own trousers and taking his own length in hand he began to pump his cock in tandem with Wil’s.

Leaning shamelessly against Wil’s body, Orson pressed his lips to Wil’s neck gently licking and nipping while at the same time increasing the speed and pressure as he continued to devote upon Wil’s straining cock.

With a rough cry, Wil arched his back pressing hard against Orson, his cock twitching as hot come spilled over Orson’s fist.

Only then does Orson allow himself his own release, moaning as he bites down on the soft flesh of Wil’s neck, come flooding hot and thick over his hand.

In the aftermath there is only the sounds of dripping water, the soft snap of the fire, and their labored breathing.

Orson can feel Wil’s seed cooling on his hand and wipes it clean in the leaves.  He then carefully tucks his limp length back into his trousers and waits for Wil to say something. Anything. 

There is only silence from the other man.

Instead Wil the pulls away with a soft cough. 

In a matter of moments his chest rises and falls with the deep even breath of sleep.

Orson settled into his makeshift bed with the disquieting feeling that he had been used.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Tarkin had been up at first light.  What had transpired the previous evening had led to a troubled night of sleep.  In the grey light of early dawn he eased from his sleeping spot. His trousers were stiff in the crotch.  He grimaced as he stood, casting a glance at Orson’s sleeping form. 

He was sound asleep.

At least one of them had a restful night.

Wil thought about waking him but refrained.  He wanted a few moments to mull things over.

_Just what was that? What did Krennic hope to prove?_

_Why didn’t he say ‘stop’ or at the very least move away?_

_Because he liked it, that was why._

Inwardly, Tarkin cringed and yet his skin flushed hot at the memory of Orson’s light touch.

It was true what he had said about not getting involved with clients.  Not that the opportunity had never presented itself.  There was something about being out in the Carrion, there among the trees and wild beasts, that tended to awaken a certain beautiful savagery in the mildest of tempers and got one’s blood rushing.

 _That was what happened_ , Wil reasoned to himself.   Orson was not used to being in such an environment and his body reacted in a primal way.  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The soft light of morning crept into the shelter, rousing Orson from sleep.   With a wide yawn he propped himself up on an elbow.  Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, he saw the patch of flattened leaves where Wil had been.  He apparently was already up and about. 

Orson rose unsteadily to his feet, his legs and arms tingling in protest after a night spent on the bare ground.  Orson wondered why Wil had not bothered to awaken him.

Was he angry after what had transpired last night?  Orson bristled as he recalled how Tarkin had somehow turned the tables and Orson had ended up feeling used.  How after Orson had brought him to climax he had merely rolled over without one word. 

_I should be the one angry._

Cautiously, Orson emerged from the hide and found Wil was outside, standing with his back to the entrance with his arms crossed.   He was standing stock still as if he were deep in thought.

Orson was just about to alert him that he was up and about when Wil’s voice cut through the morning stillness like a blade.

“It is about time you got up.  I was beginning to think you had expired during the night.”

Taken aback by Wil’s icy tone, Orson took a moment to respond.

“I…why didn’t you wake me?”

“I shouldn’t _have_ to wake you.  You knew today would be a long one and we need to get an early start.”

“Well, I am up now.  And I don’t know about you but I could sorely use some food. And caf.”

“Oh well let me get that prepared for you straight away.” Tarkin whirled, his eyes snapping in anger. “Unless you can pull it out of the thin air I am afraid you will have to wait.”

Then, without another word Wil began to pick his way back to the trail, never once looking back to make sure that Orson was following.

Orson gritted his teeth, feeling anger boiling up but pushed it down and fell into step behind Wil.

After fifteen minutes of walking in stone silence, Orson could stand it no longer.

“So…about last night…”

Wil cut him off before he could say another word.

“What about it? What happened, happened.”

Wil’s voice softened just a bit. “I do believe what we should be concerning ourselves with getting back to camp and hunting that veranax.  As I feared the heavy rain washed any and all signs of the beast away.  We are starting from scratch as of now.”

Orson got the hint and did not press the issue further.  He chalked it up to a lapse in judgement and it was not worth dwelling over.

Instead Orson decided to focus on beauty surrounding him. Shimmering drops of rainwater caught the early sunlight and shimmered like gems.  The air was fresh, and for now, cool.  It was still. Peaceful. 

Orson’s stomach tightened.

Quiet in this place was the harbinger of trouble.  Perhaps the drenching rains from last night had driven the creatures into hiding but still unease tugged at him.  Wil seemed unconcerned, keeping his eyes forward and pace brisk.  If he were not concerned, then Orson reasoned he shouldn’t be concerned either.

 Besides, they were almost to the speeder.  Once they got to camp and got some food and a piping hot cup of caf into him, he was certain both of their dispositions would improve.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The prospect of having something to eat and a cup of caf in a timely fashion was soon dashed.

The speeder was now a twisted, battered wreck. Great slashes scored the sides, the glass was broken in the windscreen, and fluffy batting from the seat cushions littered the surrounding area in sodden heaps.

Wil cursed softly.

“Hells.”

“Do you think it is still operational?”

Wil puffed out a breath, raking a hand through his hair.  “I don’t know. We can try.  I can try to get under it and assess the damage. Maybe the damage is cosmetic.”

Wil got to all fours and tried to peer underneath the speeder to no avail.  He would have to get under it to assess the mechanical damage. It was a tight fight.  He hastily removed his jacket and blaster, handing them off to Orson and then carefully squeezed under the speeder where his worst fears were confirmed.  Wires and parts hung like innards.  The repairs would take hours and looking at the damage he wasn’t even sure a field repair could be done.  

Scooting out from under the speeder, Wil shook his head in frustration.

“It will be a bit of a walk but it is doable.  Think a late lunch instead of breakfast.”  Wil’s face momentarily brightened.  “I do believe there are some ration kits kept stashed in the back. Just in case.”

As Wil rooted for provisions, Orson walked a slow circle around the wrecked vehicle.

 “Have you ever seen such a thing?”  Orson’s voice was soft and filled with fearful awe. 

Triumphantly pulling out two tins of food, he tossed one to Orson. 

“No.”  Wil’s voice was tight and grim. 

“Was it the veranax?  Did it do this?”

He knew these creatures were aggressive.  But to do something such as this?  It was like a planned attack.

The men eagerly ate the bland, but nutritious protein block, each caught up in their own thoughts.

Wil swallowed the last of his food.  Had the creature done this on purpose?  Did it somehow know?

No. That was impossible.   It was just an animal.  Powerful and crafty in its own way but it did not possess the mental capability to deliberately and maliciously destroy something.

But the beast had done such a thorough job of it. 

It was like it _knew_ how to disable the machine.

Wil tossed his empty tin to the ground.  “As I said, it is the rut.  The beast probably viewed the speeder as a rival of some sort. Really I think this is just an unfortunate coincidence. I’ll have to comm the lodge we get to camp and tell them we are ok. There is a tracker that sends a distress signal in case the speeder would crash.”

“So now we walk?”  Orson sounded almost petulant.

“That’s right. We walk.”

Wil was just reaching down to retrieve his jacket and blaster when, with a guttural bellow, the veranax exploded from the undergrowth, racing across the clearing in a full charge.

They only had seconds. 

Wil only managed to cry two words out to Orson, “Separate! Climb!” before taking off through the trees.  He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, never seeing which direction Orson had gone.

As the men sprinted off in opposite directions, the creature paused, its head swiveling gauging which to pursue.   Its nostrils flared and then loped after Wil. 

Wil pumped his legs hard.  He could hear the creature charging through the undergrowth snorting in rage.  It was coming on fast. And it was mad.

Frantically he searched for something, anything, to climb. If he could not get up and out of the beast’s reach, it was all over.  All he saw were smooth tree trunks.  There would be no time to shimmy up them, the beast would easily reach him, pull him down, and rip him apart.

Lungs burning with exertion, and losing hope, Wil spied his salvation.  A jumble of boulders. If he could scramble to the top, it might just save his hide.

Taking a running leap he managed to scramble up a rock, slicked with lichen and moss.  As he heft himself up the rocks face, he scraped his forearms.  He ignored the burning pain and continued hefting himself up the stones, expecting at any moment for the creature to take hold of one of his legs and pull him down.

But it did not.

Wil managed to scramble to the top of the formation. He was safe for the moment.  Looking down, he realized he had a clear, easy shot.  His hand fluttered to where his blaster traditionally rested and came up empty.  His stomach dropped as he recalled passing both his jacket and blaster to Orson as he had crawled under that kriffing speeder. 

He would have to summon the lodge for immediate assistance.   He reached into his trouser pocket to retrieve his comlink and found that it was gone as well.   It must have fallen from his pocket during his dash to escape.

No weapon and no means to summon help but all was not lost just yet.

The beacon had most surely been activated by the creature’s assault on the speeder which meant that the lodge would be sending out a search party.  It may very well be on its way at that very moment.  

He just had to sit tight and hope that the veranax could not find purchase enough to clamber up his stronghold.

Below the veranax paced and snapped its jaws in frustration, making repeated attempts to scramble up the rocks and failing.  Hopefully the beast would exhaust itself.

Orson’s eyes tried to pierce the trees, looking for any sign of Orson, but there was none. He had no idea which way Orson had run.  He was alone out there.  Wil was able to teach him a little but it wasn’t enough.  Did Orson still have his blaster?  Wil hoped so. Perhaps if he was able to climb into a tree he would be able to wait it out until the lodge sent a recovery party. That is what it would be deemed. A recovery because if they did not hear from Wil the assumption would be that he, and Orson, had both been killed.

~*~***~*~*~*~*~*~*

Orson still was in possession of his blaster but he was most certainly not safe in a tree.

When the beast had charged, he had done as Wil instructed, running as fast as his legs could carry him in the opposite direction.  As soon as he realized that Wil was the creature’s target, he slowed and then followed the beast.

It was an easy task. The veranax’s frenzied pursuit cut a wide swath of bent and broken vegetation.  Following the trail of destruction, a glint of metal on the black soil caught Orson’s eye.  It was Tarkin’s comlink.  He must have lost it as he fled.  Orson gathered it up and shoved it deep into his pocket.

He didn’t want to think about what he would do if the creature had claimed Wil.  Wil had never told him the frequency to summon the lodge for help.

He could hear the beast before seeing it. Crouching low, using the vegetation as a hide, Orson could see that the creature had Tarkin trapped on a large rock formation.   Orson watched as the animal bellowed and paced back and forth.  Occasionally it would rear up and attempt to clamber up the rocks.  Its sharp claws made a bone rattling screech as they scraped and gouged at the rock.  Its continued failure only further infuriated the creature and it took out its frustration by grabbing a young sapling with its jaws and ripping it from the ground.

Reaching down to his blaster, Orson wondered if he could take a shot. 

Wil’s words echoed in his head. 

_The first shot has to be a kill shot._

Was the blaster powerful enough to tear through that thick hide?  Orson highly doubted it. He thought of his trusty rifle back at the camp, useless to him.

Wil hadn’t spied him yet and for that Orson was grateful. He didn’t want Wil alerting the beast to his location. He was on borrowed time as it was.  If the creature caught his scent it would be all over.

While Orson was working through and weighing the chances of taking a shot, there was a flutter of motion in the periphery of his vision.  For a brief, heart stopping moment he thought that another veranax had arrived.  Orson was relieved to see it was nothing more than a scrap of white fabric dancing in the breeze.

A slow smile lit Orson’s face as he remembered Wil’s earlier warning.  That little piece of cloth marked the location of a drive pit.  

 A pit armed with sharp spikes.

He returned his attention back to the pacing veranax.  His hand brushed over the handle of his blaster.  An idea took root and blossomed.

_Did he dare do what he was thinking?_

He did.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Orson held his breath, ducking low as he crept through the cover of the foliage. After a few steps he pauses, keeping a vigilant eye on the veranax

He just needs to get into a better position, closer to that pit.  

Darting his eyes from the scrap of fabric and then back to the veranax, he gauges the distance.  Closer. Just a bit closer. There. That should be enough.

If this failed, he hoped that Wil made it to tell the tale.  Maybe he’d get a commemorative plaque in one of the halls of the lodge.

He held his breath and leveled the blaster, aiming for the creature’s hind leg, and squeezed off a shot.

The shot hit the beast high on its upper leg, scoring the flesh.  The animal bellowed in rage and anger and whirled about.

Orson stood up and raised his arms, shouting to grab the beast’s attention.  He didn’t dare look at Wil, keeping his focus on the veranax.  

The animal snapped its jaws in fury, so hard they made a loud clap in the still morning air before lowering its head and charging.

Orson waited two heartbeats and then tore off in the direction of the pit.

If he misjudged the beast’s stride.  If he stumbled and fell.

There was no time to worry about the “ifs.”

Orson runs as fast as he legs will carry him to the pit ahead.   He can hear the beast’s heavy gait and can swear he feels the ground shaking beneath him.   

_Focus. Do not turn around. Do not falter.  Watch for the shift in the leaf litter marking the edge of the pit._

Orson can feel the hair on his neck stand on end. Stars he can feel the beasts’ hot, moist breath at the back of his neck.  His legs burn and his chest feels as if it is going to burst and just when he thinks the creature will overtake him and this will all be for nothing he sees it.  A slight dip in the ground where the leaves look slightly different from the rest.

Holding his breath he veers hard to his right, daring a glance over his shoulder to see if his plan worked.

The veranax was running full speed.   The beast’s bulk, carried by momentum and mass, was not nearly as maneuverable.  It attempted to stop, bracing its forelegs but it was too late. It was far too close to the pit’s edge and, scrabbling madly, it slid headlong into the pit, crashing through the camouflage netting of vines and leaves.  

There is no sound save for a thick, meaty thud.  The beast is dead before it can even roar in frustration.  

Orson’s limbs begin to shake with the shock of what has just happened.

He did it.

Orson slowly crept to the edge of the pit to peer below.  The veranax was indeed dead, its body impaled by the sharp, wooden stakes that lined the bottom.

Giving a whoop of triumph, he made his way back to Wil and his boulder stronghold.  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Wil saw Orson just before he took the shot.

He wanted to cry out. To stop Orson.  Tell him that the blaster would be ineffective and taking the shot would be suicide.

Wil then watched the events that unfolded in dumb disbelief.  

Truth be told he had forgotten all about that pit. He had to hand it to Orson, if he was trying to pull of what Wil thought he was, it was brilliant.  Stupid yes, but brilliant.

Wil held his breath as Orson took the shot.  Clenched his fists as the beast tore off after Orson.  Closed his eyes as he waited, afraid to look for fear he would see the creature returning with Orson’s body limp as a doll clenched in its jaws.

There was silence that stretched on for what seemed hours.  Then he heard Orson’s whoop of joy.

Had he done it?  Yes! That kriffing idiot had done it.

Wil had already worked his way down the boulders when Orson burst from the undergrowth, face beaming in triumph.

Wil could not suppress a smile. “You stupid fool.  Do you realize just how dangerous that was?”

Orson cocked a grin.

“What?  Saving your miserable hide?”  Then noting the blood painting Wil’s forearms Orson’s face grew serious.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Just a few scrapes from the boulders.  I am fine.”

Again silence stretched between the two men but this silence was different.  It was not cold but heavy. It pressed down and Orson found it hard to breathe.  The adrenaline was still coursing through him.  

Orson took step towards Wil, his voice husked, “Are you certain?”

Wil took an involuntary step back, his back brushing the boulders.

“I am fine.”  

“Good.”  Orson advanced yet again, his face mere centimeters from Wil’s.

Wil tried in vain to change Orson’s focus.

“So then, you bagged your trophy.”

“One of them.”

Orson then caught Wil’s jaw with his fingers pulling the man to him for a kiss.

Breaking the kiss, Wil huffed, “Right here? “   He did not pull away.  

Orson only smiled, reclaiming Wil’s mouth he suckled at Wil’s lower lip before deepening the kiss, pressing his back hard against the boulders, tongue teasing and exploring Wil’s mouth.  With a rough growl he pulled Wil towards him, pressing the length of his body hungrily against Wil’s.  

He could feel the hungry press of Wil’s cock against his thigh through the fabric of his trousers.  He pressed his palm flat against it and rubbed with slow teasing strokes.

Orson broke this kiss, panting.

“Do you want more?”

Wil said nothing, only pressed his mouth hungrily to Orson’s, biting his lower lip.

Orson’s hands fluttered to the front of Wil’s trousers and unfastened them, murmuring in frustration as the clasp resisted his efforts to come undone.  Working the clasp free he sank to his knees, pulling Wil’s trousers down.  Wil’s thick, cock bobbed free, the head purple and glistening with precome.

Meeting Wil’s eyes he took a firm grip on Wil’s thick shaft, giving the cockhead a teasing lick before slipping the length of him into his mouth.

Groaning in pleasure, Wil fisted Orson’s hair, guiding his head as he sucked and licked. 

“Y…you are shameless.”

Mouth full, Orson on groaned in agreement.

Moaning in pleasure, the sharp tang of sweat on Orson’s tongue, he devoted upon Wil’s cock, teasing the length with light fluttering licks, teasing the head before swallowing the length once more, all the while Wil’s soft moans and cries piercing the late morning stillness urging him on.

With a sharp cry Wil spilled hot into Orson’s mouth, holding his head fast to him, forcing him to swallow.  Orson obediently took every drop with a soft sigh of pleasure, taking great clear to lick that thick cock clean of every trace of come.

His blue eyes met Wil’s as he did so, conveying his pleasure.

Slowly, Orson rose to his feet and kissed Wil’s soundly. 

“I don’t usually do this, you know,” Wil huffed.

Orson only grinned as Wil pulled up his trousers and tucked his limp organ away.

“Well, you just did. Now then.  Let us go have a look at my trophy.”  


 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Wil nodded as he peered into the pit. 

“Those pits certainly get the job done. We’ll need a good-sized crew to get it out of there.  I hope you know a good taxidermist. That hide is a wreck with those punctures.  I hope the lodge received the signal from that speeder.  It has been a few hours.  Hopefully they will be on their way although since they have not heard from me they will assume we are dead.”

Orson’s face brightened.  “I almost forgot.”  Digging into the pocket of his trousers he produced Wil’s comlink.

“I found it as when I was following you. It must have fallen out of your pocket as you were running.”

Wil smiled as he took the device.  “This will make things much easier.  I’ll hail the lodge and inform them that we are okay, the hunt was a success, and to send the packing team out.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After Wil spoke to Pera, they resumed their trek to the camp.  Both men, lost in their thoughts, did not speak, yet the silence was comfortable.  There was no need to force conversation.  

When at last the camp came into view, serene and in order, just as they had left it Will broke the silence, “Ah well this is a relief.”

Orson nodded as his eyes swept over the camp.  It felt as if they had been gone for weeks, not a mere day.

So much had happened.

Within minutes Wil got a fire started and the cookstove going for that long yearned for cup of caf.

Orson watched as Wil fussed and flitted through the camp, fixing this and arranging that.  Constantly in motion even after his ordeal. The scrapes on his forearms continued to ooze blood.

Finally cornering Wil in his tent Orson’s brow furrowed.  “Let me take a look at those wounds.”  Wil claimed to have suffered no grievous injuries, and he certainly did not act like it, but just to be on the safe side Orson wanted to look him over.

Wil rolled his eyes in annoyance but agreed.  Upon close inspection Wil’s wounds were nothing more than superficial scrapes that had bled rather copiously, giving the wounds a far more serious appearance.

“Med kit?”

Wil nodded.  “Over in that box by my bunk.  I am fine. Really. I don’t need you fussing over me like a brood hen.”

Orson shook his head. “You said yourself the smallest injury could turn dangerous out here.”  Gathering the medical kit, Orson began to paw through various vials and bottles before extracting a small packet of bacta wipes and a few bandages. 

Opening a wipe, Orson pressed it to the larger of Wil’s injuries, causing him to draw his breath in a sharp hiss at the sharp sting as the medication hit the raw, scraped flesh.

Orson cocked an eyebrow.

“Really?  I would think to you this is nothing.  Now quit squirming about and let me clean you up.”

“It kriffing stings.”

“Consider the alternative. What if that veranax had gotten ahold of you?  I am pretty sure we’d be dealing with shoving your innards back inside, yes?”

“Well, we do not have to worry about that because you came along at the right moment.”  Wil’s brow knit in thought.  “I underestimated you Orson Krennic.  You have surprised me.  In many ways.”  Wil’s voice softened just the slightest bit and Orson got the feeling that he was talking about more than Orson’s prowess in the field.

Orson continued tending to the wounds but murmured, “I am glad to have pleased you.”

As Orson worked he reflected on the events of the day.  His adrenaline from the hunt was still coursing through his body, even hours later.  He was alive and uninjured.   He had managed to survive the savagery of the famed Carrion and had managed to take down one of its apex predators using his guile and courage.

And he had manage to save the life of one of its most experienced guides.

The glory of a successful hunt should have filled him with pride, yes, oddly Orson found that the fact he had managed to save Wil’s life gave him far more satisfaction than felling the beast.

Wounds cleaned and bandaged, Orson then studied Wil’s face, still spattered with flecks of dried blood.  His shoulders sagged with fatigue, his auburn hair mussed, but his eyes, alert and sharp, studied Orson intently.

Swallowing hard, his cheeks unexpectedly flushing under the man’s piercing gaze, Orson husked, “You truly are a pain in my ass.”  The hand which pressed the bacta square to Wil’s forearm flexed into a gentle grip.  The play of muscle underneath the flesh, the warmth of Wil’s skin bleeding into his palm, made it tingle, thrilling at the contact.

Wil’s lips were parted as if to speak yet he had no snappy retort. 

Finally he broke the silence.

“Congratulations on a successful hunt, Orson. You felled the beast that managed to place the one black mark on my guide history.”

“Cal.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Cal. I hate “Orson”.  Only my partners and business associates call me that. Just…call me by my middle name. Callan….Cal.  That is what…friends address me as.

Wil’s lips lazed into a smile.

“Really now? Congratulations, Cal.”

There were a few awkward heartbeats of silence.  Orson felt like he wanted to say more but realized that now was probably not the best time to delve into Wil’s feelings and thoughts about what had transpired between the two of them.  The hunt was over and their time together was coming to an end. Orson struggled with why it was so important to know how Wil had felt about him.  Did he still regard him as a spoiled annoyance?  Or had Orson now earned his respect with his clever performance? 

Orson released his grip on Wil’s arm and straightened.  “Well I don’t know about you but I feel like a kriffing mess.  If it is all well and good with you, I am going to go to down to the stream and clean myself up a bit.”

Wil managed a thin smile. “No spying on you this time, promise.”

It was Orson’s turn to roll his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Twilight gloom crept through the camp with dusky violet shadow and a softness that early evening brings.

Wil and Orson spent the rest of that day recovering, dozing in the sun, and rehashing what had transpired.  The lodge had been thrilled to learn that Wil and his client were very much alive and well and of the successful hunt. Pera informed Wil that the recovery crew would be arriving the next morning.

The two men enjoyed a quiet dinner and then turned in for the evening.

Orson tossed and turned on his cot.  He should be exhausted after the events that had unfolded but sleep eluded him. He found himself on edge. Tightly wound.

He kept trying to convince himself his agitation was just an aftereffect of the day’s hunt.

Deep down he knew it was a lie.   

He kept thinking of Wil.  With a curse he eased from the cot.  Peering through the screen he saw that Wil’s light was still on in his shelter, casting a dull glow through the fabric.

He was still awake.

_Hells._

Sighing Orson slipped on his trousers and made his way to Wil’s shelter, not quite sure what he was going to say.  

Pausing by the entrance he cleared his throat and ventured, “Are you still awake?”

“Come in.”

Orson found Wil propped up in on his cot.  He had been reading.

“Please, have a seat. Don’t just stand there looming over me.”

Orson eased onto the cot, its springs creaking in complaint.

“How are you feeling? How are your arms?”

Wil smiled. “I find your concern rather touching.  I am perfectly fine.  Now tell me, why are you really here?”

Orson flushed slightly, and swallowed hard.  “Well…I just wanted to let you know I have—enjoyed our time together.  I will admit I found you rather abrasive at first.”

Again Wil gave a light chuckle.

“Abrasive? You were not all sunshine either.  You came flouncing off of that shuttle like a spoiled, entitled little brat.  I was ready to send you right back.”

“We come from different worlds, you and I. I am used to my comforts, civilization.  I suppose beneath this polished image, deep down there is a wilder side that needs to be set free once in a while.”

Wil nodded. “I am glad I was able to help you uncage that part of you.”  He paused before continuing, “I must say I was—confused by your attention. Your intent.”

Orson inwardly cringed.  Wil was right.  At first it _had_ been a bit of a game.  To see how far he could push Wil.

“It was. At first. But now…”  Orson’s voice trailed off.

“Now?”

“You have…grown on me.”

“Ah. Right. Another prize to claim.”  There was a hint of humor in Wil’s voice, as he straightened slightly, leaning into the pillow. 

“Perhaps.”

Orson took that as the moment to lean down and brush his lips over Wil’s.  What did it matter now?  The transport would be here the morning help pack out the carcass. They would go their separate ways. If Wil decided to reject this final advance there would only be a few uncomfortable hours to suffer through.

Wil stiffened at the contact for just a heartbeat before breaking the kiss to murmur, “So very spoiled.” Then taking Orson’s lower lip, he bit just hard enough to let Orson know that he was permitting this but it would be on _his_ terms.  Sliding his arms up Orson’s back he pulled him down on top of him, causing Orson to give a soft murmur of surprise. Feeling the hard press of Wil’s cock against his inner thigh, he ground into it before rising from Wil.   Saying nothing more he began to undress and when he was full nude he stood for Wil’s inspection, cock bobbing in anticipation.  

Hungrily claiming Wil’s mouth, hands working furiously to peel away his clothing unfastening the belt and tugging down the trousers and throwing them to the floor now leaving Wil laid out nude and ready, his cock arching and wanting for attention.

“Are you sure?  You claim to have never fucked a client.”  Orson’s voice husks as he again moves on top of Wil, sliding his hard cock in a slow tease along Wil’s engorged length.

“The hunt was a success.  I no longer consider you a client.” 

Orson leans over to retrieve the bottle of lube from the medical kit still at Wil’s bedside.  He remembered seeing it earlier, wondering why it was even in there. 

Pouring a dollop of the thick liquid into his palm, allowing it warm slightly, he meets Wil’s gaze.  Wil only nods.

He slicks Wil’s cock with a few teasing strokes. 

Wil only gasps and arches into his touch.

“Help get me ready for you.”  Taking the lube he slicks Wil’s fingers.

Biting his lip he feels Wil’s fingers laze over his entrance, teasing.

“Please.”

“You are so needy.”

Pressing a finger to the ring of muscle, Wil hesitates and then slips inside, feeling Orson clench around him.  He then adds another finger and yet another until three are crammed into Orson’s tight, needy hole.

“Shameless, aren’t you?  I feel you tight on my fingers.  That’s it.  Open for me.”

With a soft moan, Orson then falls forward, resting his forehead on Wil’s bucking his hips hungrily as Wil works his slicked fingers in and out.

“Now now, not yet.” Wil admonishes, abruptly removing his fingers.

Orson gave a soft cry of distress.

“Now I want you to fuck yourself.”

Orson complies, slicking his fingers and pushing them deep inside, shuddering and moaning as he does so.

“I know you want my cock filling you, but I want you good and ready.”

“Y…yes. I will be ready.”

As Orson continued working on preparing himself, Wil tipped up and kissed Orson hard again delivering a sharp bite to Orson’s lower lip.  Breaking the kiss, Wil whispered, “Are open for me?”

“Yes..y..yes. Please.”

“That’s a good boy. Now. Ride me.”

Orson withdrew his fingers and slowly eased down onto Wil’s hard length, giving a soft gasp as Wil’s cock fills him.   Once fully seated, he does not move. Not at first. He allows himself to settle around Wil, enjoying the sensation of being filled.  That initial thrust is always his favorite and he wishes to savor the moment. Mark Wil’s expression. Note his sighs of pleasure and desire.

He begins to move, slow and teasing, hands braced for leverage upon Wil’s chest.  Orson notes various bruises and cuts that mark the pale flesh and seeing this sign of frailty only serves to enhance his pleasure.

“Faster. Go faster.” Wil urges, his breath coming in rough gasps.  He feels Orson’s tight heat clenching around his length and a low burn of pleasure works its way from his lower belly, spreading fiery tendrils to his arms and lets.  He does not wish to lose control just yet, he wants to hold on to this sensation for as long as he possibly can and yet at the same time all he wants is to fill Orson. Spill into him. Mark him as his. 

As Orson continues to ride him, snapping his hips harder, memories of the last few days flash through his mind, enhancing his experience.  Orson bathing in the stream. Orson with his body pressed close as he fisted Wil’s hard cock to orgasm, Orson’s head bobbing up and down on Wil’s cock.

It all lead to this moment. A final act in a carnal dance.

A slight flush blooms on Orson’s chest and he bites his lip.

“No. Don’t come yet.” Wil commands. 

Orson’s hand has wandered to his own straining cock, fisting it with hard, sure strokes but at Wil’s orders he immediately releases himself, his cock bobbing as he continues to grind and ride Wil.

Wil prides himself on self-control and by the stars he is going to hold off coming as long as he can.

He only hopes Orson has the stamina.

“That’s it.  Fuck me. Ride me.  Do you think you can make me come?”  

Orson only nods, his glacial eyes piercing Wil’s. 

By now Orson’s cock has begun to leak, a thin streamer of precome seeping from the cockhead to dribble on Wil’s lower belly.  It shimmers in the filtered light of the shelter.

“Taste yourself,” Wil hisses.  “Clean up that mess you are making.”

Orson groans softly, and complies, swiping his finger in the clear fluid and suckling it clean.

Seeing Orson, his eyes hooded in lust as he laps up his own come pushes Wil so close to the edge he almost comes undone.  He manages to maintain.

Orson continues to grind on Wil’s hard length, licking his finger clean and purring, “I taste so good.  Here…” He again delves a finger over his cockhead, gathering more precome on his fingertip and then pressing the finger to Wil’s lips. “Taste me.”

With a soft moan Wil complies, allowing the sharp taste to settle over his tongue, and that, coupled with Orson’s tight heat squeezing his cock, finally tips him over the edge.  Giving a rough cry he spills into Orson, hands fisting the sheets and back arching in pleasure.

Feeling Wil spurting deep inside of him almost takes Orson over the edge but he remembers himself and gritting his teeth holds his pleasure until Wil gives him permission.

Collecting himself, Wil whispers, “Go on. You may.”

Still seated on Wil’s softening cock, Orson strokes himself to completion, giving a soft grunt as he spills over his hand.

Exhausted he disengages himself from Wil and sinks to the bedding.

There is silence broken only by the sound of both men’s breathing. Lazing a hand down Orson’s flank, Wil murmurs I do not think this cot is big enough for the both of us. A gentle suggestion that perhaps Orson should make his way back to his own shelter.

Orson gave no reply. He was already sound asleep, face slack with contentment.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Wil shifted his position pressing close the Orson’s back. All it would take would be a firm shove for Orson to be on the floor and he would have his bed to himself.  He contemplated it for a few moments but before he could act, he too, drifted to sleep.

 


	9. Epilogue

“When did this arrive?”

The large crate sat square in Wil’s study, taking up a rather large portion of the room.

The assistant shifted uncomfortably.  “I believe this morning, sir. Along with the supplies.”

“Do we know who it is from?”

The outside of the container was unadorned with any name or marking to give him a clue who it was from.

It took the assistant and Tarkin a good 15 minutes to wrestle the box open.

When the crate finally surrendered its secret, Wil stood back his brow furrowed.

From the depths of the crate, the fearsome head of the veranax, Krennic’s trophy, glared up at him. Peeling back the protective padding he saw that it was not just the head, but the entire front half of the creature.  The mount was spectacularly done.  All tears in the hide left by the spikes in that drive pit were expertly repaired.  The faint scar of Tarkin’s long ago shot was still evident.

Digging further, Tarkin found a small card that only read:

 

**_Wil:_ **

**_I believe this would be better displayed in your lodge.  By rights, I feel this belongs to you._ **

**_All my best._ **

**_Cal_ **

 

Wil smiled, dropping the card back into the crate. It landed next to another small package. Curious, Wil drew it out and slipped the padding away.

It was a bottle of fine Corellian red.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :D


End file.
